


Whistle for the Choir

by rissalf



Category: League of Gentlemen (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Oral Sex, Spanking, pens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf
Summary: Bernice admonishes an errant sinner.





	Whistle for the Choir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilentSinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/gifts).



People are fucking shits. Unrepentant, good-for-fuck-all shits. Oh, they come in every Sunday, heads bowed in fake piety, pretending to give a rat’s hairy arse about the Almighty and the disciples and the Ten bloody Commandments, but they’re not fooling the one who’s been stuck ministering to them for the best part of 30 years. Looking out at the sea of doughy, bored faces week after week reveals everything one needs to know about the flock of Royston Vasey and, in turn, humanity in general.

Indolent, self-serving cocksuckers only in it for the free pass out of Hell.

Where do they go when it’s time to put a few pounds in the collection plate, eh? Or when it’s time to squeeze their corpulent arses into the confessional to dish all the best gossip? Oh, no, they clear out faster than a hoard of fatties facing an all-veg buffet. Lazy cunts.

The church’s confession schedule is hardly worth keeping, but it’s an unfortunate requirement Bernice is obligated to keep. Church bylaws and charters and all manner of bureaucratic bullshit. She’s come to expect no more noise than a mouse fart when the last of the parishioners files out after services on Sunday evening, so when the vestibule creaks like the tired old bones of a toothless knobber ambling out to get the day’s post, she isn’t certain whether to be intrigued or utterly annoyed. (Considering she was about five minutes from packing it in and sitting down with a beer and an episode of that naked dating programme, she opts for the latter.)

The worn wooden window separating sinner from saint slides open. “Well, get on with it then,” she barks.

“Right, yes. Bless me... Reverend?” It’s a robust voice, vaguely feminine but harsh as bleach, and one Bernice is certain she’s heard somewhere around town, though where escapes her at the moment. Part of the fun of confession – on the rare occasion when someone stumbles in (and hasn’t mistaken the vestibule for a sodding toilet) – is trying to guess who the guilty party is. It’ll come to her soon enough. “You’ll have to forgive me,” the woman insists, “I’m afraid I don’t do _this_ sort of thing often.” They never do.

“Yes, well, forgiveness is why you’re here, innit.” For Christ’s sake, get on with it. There’s cocks waiting that aren’t about to ogle themselves.

The confessor clears her throat. “Of course. You see, I’ve been… unfaithful to my fiance. He’s a sweet lad; thick as a pig shit, but I do love 'im. The cheating, it was a necessary evil, but even so, I know it was wrong, and– Well, we’re to be married soon, and I’d like to ease my conscience.”

“Another whoremonger,” Bernice sneers. Nine times out of ten it’s whoremongering, and every sordid tale is like hitting the fucking jackpot. What she wouldn’t give for a tub of popcorn and a pack of Maltesers. “It’s always a necessary evil with you lot. Little throb between your legs and you think the world’s gonna come down around you if you don’t get off. Well, here’s a little tip – and not the sort you’re used to shoving in yer gob, so listen up good: Most of the world’s problems would be solved if you horny twats kept your fucking knees shut!”

“How dare you,” the woman fumes. “You’ve got it wrong. I was being blackmailed!”

“And you thought you’d engage in a little tit for tat rather than face what you done like a man?” Bernice leans in close to the lattice divider. “You _disgust_ me.”

There’s nary a peep from the other side, save for a bit of rustling and a deep, tremulous exhale.

“Say again?” the woman ventures at last, her voice drained of all the affronted hubris of just a few moments ago.

“I said you disgust me! Lying, sex-mad adulterers! You’re lucky the Lord is supposed to be forgiving because you’ll get no sympathy from me, that’s for sure.” Bernice shifts in her seat in an effort to get comfortable. “Well, go on, we’ll need to hear the whole sordid charade. And don’t go leavin’ anything out.”

This is the single most rewarding bit of the job. All the dirty details laid out and exposed like the taut, bronzed arse of some Mediterranean beefcake lounging under the summer sun.

“Well, I was in prison – silly misunderstanding really. And then one day, I wasn’t. The man I strayed with, he got me out so that I would spy on a mutual acquaintance of ours. But it felt dirty and wrong, and I had grown to care for the poor sod. So, I went to break it off – the spying – and that’s when...“ she sighs.

For Christ’s sake, it was actually getting good. “Yes?”

“I let him bum me- Look, I’m not proud of it. Told myself it was to buy his silence, ensure he wouldn’t send me back to the clink or get me fiance in trouble.”

“But you enjoyed it, didn’t you.” Bernice shakes her head. “Don’t answer. Of course you fucking did. Bet you look back on that sordid night–”

“–afternoon, actually–”

“For God’s sake, woman. Can’t even do it under the cover of darkness like a respectable tart. Well regardless, I imagine you spend quite a lot of time remembering your little tryst – down on yer knees, bum in the air, longing to feel that nice, thick cock filling you up, pounding away–”

“–eh, he was average at best–”

Bernice smacks the lattice divider. “No interruptin’!”

More rustling and a long, heavy sigh. “Right, yes, do go on. You were pounding away.”

Fire and brimstone were always the best bits of the Bible. The idea that actions have consequences, that the evils of the world would be punished, had been the sole deciding factor in leading a young Bernice Woodall to the priesthood in the first place. Faith was for the weak-willed, the suckers – the hopeless twats with more feelings than brains. No, faith had nothing to do with Bernice’s decision to become a woman of the cloth. As she’d always seen it, it’s her job to make sure the Bible beaters stay in line and practice what they preach. To be judge, jury and executioner of the judgemental. God might be too lazy to punish the errant cocksuckers here on earth, so someone needed to step in and dish out His great and unyielding judgement. Some callings truly are nothin’ short of divine.

She’s set to launch into some of her greatest hits – adulterers blistering in the lake of fire, the Whore of Babylon getting her tits sliced off and fed to Satan’s hellhounds; real fun stuff – when a soft but unmistakable moan pierces the relative solemnity of the church.

“What in all holy hell,” Bernice mutters. If this is some prank, they’ll be answering to the trusty crossbow. With a quick and quiet ease, she slips out of her cubicle and yanks back the neighbouring curtain to expose the confessor – mid transgression, as it happens.

In all the years of base, lewd and downright lecherous behavior she’s eagerly listened to and gleefully admonished, it had never occurred to Bernice that there were some individuals who might find her particular brand of righteous smiting a tad, well, titillating. But there in the cramped confines of the confessional sits Pauline Campbell-Jones – her sensible navy pencil skirt bunched around her thick thighs with her hand thrust between her legs, as her garish bubblegum-pink painted lips scrunch in a concentrated pucker. It’s a look that says constipation more than ecstasy, but the egregious act is unmistakable. It’s the only time in memory Bernice has ever been rendered speechless. The effect, however, proves temporary.

“Jesus tittyfucking Christ!”

“Piss off! I’m nearly finished!” Pauline shouts.

“Not in my confessional you’re not!”

Fuelled by revulsion and rage, Bernice reaches in and hauls the degenerate scum out by the ear. It isn’t the act itself she objects to really; it’s the audacity, the hypocrisy. Coming in like you’re part of the spineless rabble and then bloody gettin’ off on it! It upsets the natural order of things.

“Cunt!” Pauline roars.

“Wanker!”

It all happens in a flash – a big, cliched, rose and lemon-scented flash. They’re pushing and shoving – slamming into the stone-carved basin of “holy” water (filled with the finest from Royston Vasey’s taps for the last three years or so) and then stumbling up the risers and knocking the pulpit right into the papier-mache Nativity display. (The Three Wise Men lose their heads in one all-too-satisfying _crunch.)_ Winded and seething, they end up nose-to-nose – Pauline glaring from behind oversized and outdated specs that Bernice contemplates snatching off her face and shoving right up her gash – before the moment pivots and they become a tangle of arms and tongues and strong, groping hands.

All things considered, kissing Pauline is remarkably pleasant. Those clownish lips are actually quite sumptuous; in fact, Pauline is soft all over, from her to tits to her hair – an unnatural shade of orange that God Himself, if He existed, would never have dared create – to her wide, round ass, which Bernice feels compelled to smack until it’s as absurdly pink as the woman’s mouth.

She’s no match for Pauline in the mass department, but Bernice makes good use of the element of shock; bending her over the front pew takes little more effort than simply grabbing a handful of hair and giving her a good and disorienting spin, the wooden bench creaking in protest at the abuse.

“I’d presume this is a position you’re quite familiar with,” Bernice says before bringing her hand down in a satisfying _smack._

“Fuck you,” Pauline grunts, but she doesn’t dare retaliate. The truth of the matter is, once you break through the brash bluster, she’s as pliable as plumbing putty. She’s never silent – oh, it would take the whole heavenly fuckin’ host to drown out the commentary, commands and obscene amount of moaning that pours from her mouth with each redeeming slap – but she proves every bit the eager penitent.

“Please,” Pauline says through gritted teeth, want finally winning out over pride, “just fuck me already.”

Despite having just tongue wrestled the woman minutes earlier, Bernice hadn’t given any thought to what might come after she’d had her fill of punishing her errant sinner. Fire and brimstone don’t exactly leave room for pleasures of the flesh; that tends to be what summons them in the first place. But it’s been a while since she indulged – too long, come to think of it. (In fact, the last sausage roll she stuffed in her gob was made by Greggs and gave her terrible gas after.)

She hesitates. It’s not as though Bernice believes in the bloody Commandments enough to care for violating them. But she’s never had a woman. Where to even start?

“Oh, I see.” Pauline sits back with a wince, her demeanor shifting from supple to smug like a shark that’s suddenly sensed blood in the water. “First time, love? I forget the only thing you lot get to flick through is the Bible.”

“I’ve 'ad sex,” Bernice snaps. “Just not with one o’ you.” And not in this decade.

“One of me?” Pauline laughs long and loud. “Well, I’ll share a little secret: We’re a lot less faff than men. No ego to fluff, no waiting till they come to get ours, no need to find somethin’ to spit a load into afterwards. And tits are a damn sight better lookin’ than a pair of hairy bollocks.”

It’s a decent point, and damn if Pauline isn’t starting to almost look attractive herself. She’s lost her specs somewhere in the tussle, and without them she appears somewhat vulnerable, like a turtle missing its shell. Bernice tries to recall if she hit her head during their brawl.

“What you say, Reverend? Shall I worship at the altar?” she asks with a grin.

Pauline doesn’t wait for a reply before shoving Bernice back and reaching under her skirt to yank off her pants, and if she had a mind to protest, it’s entirely abandoned when Pauline ducks her head beneath her skirt and licks a long, tantalizing stripe up the length of her cunt. “Oh!” Jesus fuckin’ John. Praise be all the sodding deities.

What Pauline Campbell-Jones lacks in wit, grace and a basic sense of decency, she more than makes up for in being fastidious when it comes to a job. She happily hums as she buries her face into the waiting flesh and laps at it like her life depends on it.

Bernice never imagined she’d be in this position – cold, hard oak flush against her bare arse as she’s eaten like a bonfire-night spread – but she wryly recalls the trite proverb about God moving in mysterious ways. A-fuckin’-men.

She shudders when Pauline zeroes in on her swollen clit and damn near loses all composure when she shoves two thick fingers right up her cunt. There’s nothing gentle about the way Pauline thrusts them in and out, and truth be told, she’d have it no other way. The woman knows her way round a fanny, that’s for damn certain. Christ Almighty, it feels fuckin’ tits. It feels-

“Christ!” She clutches at Pauline’s coppery mop of hair and arches into one fucker of an orgasm, Pauline not letting up until the waves of ecstasy subside. “Fuuuuuck me,” Bernice breathes. Oh, God, she’s missed this.

There’s barely time to come down from it all when Pauline pulls her up and kisses her long and deep, parting her lips with her tongue to give Bernice a taste of herself. “My, that was fast,” Pauline boasts. “Nice to see I’ve not lost my touch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bernice smirks. “Your turn?”

“Aye, gimme my bag there, love,” Pauline says. She fishes around for a moment before triumphantly pulling out a 5-and-a-half-inch long pink, tapered Biro.

“It’s a pen.”

With the click of a flat, silver button on the side, the thing buzzes to life. “And,” Pauline says with no small amount of pride, “a vibrator. Had it special made.”

Christ on a cracker. “You fucking pervert. Give it here then.”

“Ah, ah, ah. I don’t let just anyone touch my pens. You can watch,” she says with a wink.

Leaning back against the arm of the pew and hoisting her leg over the back, she gets right to it. The bespoke Biro really is a wonder, and in no time at all Pauline takes on a tone most often heard from the cats that congregate in the ginnel round back of the butcher’s.

“Ohhhh, yes,” she moans, moving the pen in small, rapid circles, “that’s the spot. _Yes."_

Watching is all well and fine, but it’s not particularly fun. On an impulse, Bernice kneels and takes over for the Biro. She dives in without hesitation, lapping at the warm, wet folds and digging her fingers into Pauline’s thighs, squeezing a little harder when Pauline groans in agreement. It’s entirely different from sucking cock; tastes a damn sight better, too.

“Just like that, love,” Pauline says, flexing her hips to grind against the mouth sucking at her clit. “Just like that,” she chants. It’s clear she’s getting close – fuck, she was halfway there before they even started – and on a whim, Bernice drives three fingers up into her cunt in an effort to send her right over the edge.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ she bellows in response.

If Pauline were loud before, she’s absolutely thunderous now. When she comes – one hand gripping the back of the pew as the other presses Bernice’s face firmly against her pussy – her booming voice reverberates off the rafters like a foul-fucking-mouthed chorus. It’s not as God intended, but it’s certainly more rousing than the usual invocations.

Both satisfied and spent, they take a moment to make themselves presentable once more. Pauline finds her glasses and buttons her blouse, but the garish smear of lipstick round her lips betrays exactly what she’s been up to. Might as well have written ‘WHORE’ across her face with that fancy clit pen of hers.

“Well,” she says, popping the device back into her bag, “so much for easing me conscience, I guess. Suppose now I’ll be needing to give another confession.”

Off the top of her head, Bernice can think of a dozen ways to make Pauline scream – six of which would be deliciously blasphemous, and one of those would require prizing the bronze crucifix off the door to her office. She licks her lips and swats Pauline on the ass.

“Same time next week, pet.”

Beats the shit out of the game show cocks.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say "hey" or "you cunt" or what have ya at [constant-sinner.tumblr.com](https://constant-sinner.tumblr.com)


End file.
